Chapter 16

After a conversation with Schubert, Nilsson leaves town, deciding to bivouac at a cabin on the outskirts of Whitehorse. He meets James Sinclair and a fight ensues. Is Nilsson a Swedish national or someone else? 

Chapter 16

As soon as the policeman had departed, Nilsson got to work. Getting out of town was his first priority. He’d already decided to bivouac at the closest cabin he could find. According to the information he’d gathered, it belonged to an Englishman named James Sinclair. He threw some papers into the stove and gathering his belongings, left the room. No one paid him any attention as he walked down the stairs. 

He set off for Eighth Avenue, on the outer edge of Whitehorse. Foot traffic was light on Main Street. He continued west, past Fifth Avenue, then turned the corner for Sixth Avenue, heading north…and ran headlong into three boys barreling his way. The collision sent the boys sprawling. Nilsson, unprepared as he was, was knocked against the wall of Taylor & Drury Mercantile. 

Keiren Vallely, the oldest, was the first to get up. He tried to focus. His friends were slowly picking themselves off the boardwalk. The man he’d tried to pickpocket was brushing snow from his clothes. Keiren cursed his bad luck: he’d chosen the wrong mark.

“Shit-faced Irish scum trying to pick pockets now, are we?” 

The man checked his coat, like he was doing an inventory of what might be missing. He stooped to pick up a knife lying a few feet from where he stood. Keiren was close enough to see the ornate designs on the scabbard.

“What the fuck,” Keiren whispered, as he looked at the symbols on the knife. “You’re a Kraut.”

Nilsson lifted the youngest boy from the ground. 

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, ignoring the older boy’s comment.

“Ruary,” the boy answered, not comprehending Keiren’s words. 

“No lad,” he said, speaking to Keiren. “I’m just an old veteran with a souvenir.” He unsheathed the knife and set it to Ruary’s neck. “Care to have a look at the blade? German steel—good for smooth, Irish skin.” 

He shoved the boy over to his friends. 

“Do you take my meaning, you little Irish cunts?”

He pushed Ruary towards his friends. The boys sprinted for the corner and were gone.

Nilsson walked on, his encounter with the boys already forgotten. Further ahead, he turned left onto Ogilvie. It was a dead end street littered with discarded mining equipment, and the perfect location to hide the stolen pickup. It looked at home in a junkyard of rusted machines. He climbed in and hot-wired the ignition. The wires sparked, illuminating the cab in flashes of blue. In a matter of seconds the engine turned over. He mentally reviewed the directions to his bivouac. He would arrive with plenty of time to scope out the perimeter. If James Sinclair was at the cabin, he would kill him or anyone unfortunate enough to be staying there. By the time they were missed, Nilsson would be long gone.

Nilsson shifted into first gear, grinding the old transmission until it slipped in. The old truck rattled along and with nearly no muffler, the noise inside the cab was deafening. He could feel the traction begin to slip and the snow deepening the further he drove from town. He would have to ditch the truck further away from the cabin than he’d planned. It was just as well. He wasn’t sure how far noise carried across the tundra, so why take the chance. Not far ahead he spied a copse of spruce, down an embankment; their heavy snow-laden branches sagged, nearly touching the ground. He pulled over, threw the shifter into neutral and rolled the truck underneath the canopy. The tires left deep impressions but there was nothing to be done about that, not until the next snowfall. He grabbed his gear, strapped on his snow shoes and set off in the direction of the cabin. 

The stillness was absolute; the forest lay in deep winter slumber, its ceiling, dense and the forest floor in perpetual gloom. It mattered little to Nilsson—he knew where the cabin lay in approximate distance to the river. There were only two ways to approach the cabin: the first followed the waterway. It was direct but exposed. The second was through the forest, a longer route but with plenty of cover. The snowshoes would slow him even further but fighting for each step on the snow-covered river would sap his energy before he was half way there. He hoisted his pack and began the final leg to the cabin. 

After a time, he sensed a shape ahead, something that didn’t belong in the darkness. The trees had lost their zigzag pattern, made visible by the luminous snow. Then, a match flared, revealing a window. A lantern was lit and its orange glow spilled onto the snow, softly illuminating whatever lay beneath the window. Nilsson leaned against a tree and waited, listening. 

Approaching the cabin from the rear he circled around and took cover twenty-five yards from the front door, careful to remain outside of the lantern’s reach. Then, he began moaning, sucking huge draughts of air between clenched teeth, then began calling out, the incoherent phrases of a man in shock.

The lantern was extinguished; an oily darkness returned. A hollow footfall from within the cabin echoed through the darkness; hinges groaned and the door swung open. A man edged closer to the door and peered around. Suddenly, he fell abruptly, back into the cabin. The door had frame shattered.

Silencer, was all he thought. He wheeled around for cover. Military, was his second thought. American made no sense, Canadian even less—the French couldn’t have found him. He swung around and fired the shotgun. The blast shattered the stillness of the night.

“Who are you?” James Sinclair shouted. 

Nilsson smiled—panic had already gripped the man inside. He skirted around the side of the cabin. The few windows were too small to use as a point of entry. Fire was out of the question: he couldn’t risk burning the cabin to flush out his adversary—maybe the cold would do that for him.

“Show yourself, bastard!” Sinclair yelled. 

Nilsson settled in, comfortable in his buffalo hide clothing. He would give the Englishman an hour. By then, the mounting panic would all but guarantee an irrational move. 

Sinclair weighed his options: the front door was out of the question: the small windows would keep the intruder out but also prevented his own escape. By now, he was certain the cabin would not be burned which meant the cabin was needed. Whoever was outside had to make a move before sunrise because light would benefit them both. The waiting, he reasoned, was to make him break. He smiled into the darkness: he hadn’t survived undercover work in France only to be killed in the backwoods of the Yukon. He would wait. 

He eased his way to the rear of the cabin and turned the kitchen table over, sliding it next to the stove, the only reasonable place for cover. He placed a broom behind the stove as a ruse, hoping the shooter would confuse it for a rifle barrel. Sinclair unfurled the rope ladder from the loft. A high position would be his only tactical advantage. He pulled himself up the ladder and placed the shotgun over the rafters. Next he lugged a sack of flour and rope into the attic; the rafters groaned under his weight. He shimmied over the rough hewn timbers and tied the sack to the furthest crossbeam, away from the window, then slowly lowered it to a few feet above the floor. The sight and sound of it crashing to the floor might distract the shooter for half a second—all he needed to unleash a shot. He angled the shot gun at the door but left enough room to cover the window; he cracked the double-barrel and reloaded. He had two shots but he would only need one. If he needed a second, he would be dead.

The minutes dragged on. Nilsson checked his watch—nearly an hour had passed. Sounds from the cabin interrupted the silence. He cocked his head, listening. 

The Englishman is dragging something across the floor. He nodded to himself. Finally, a sensible precaution. 

He was barricading himself, probably next to the stove. It only took a square inch of iron to ensure one’s survival. So, he’s not panicking. He could respect a worthy adversary. Perhaps this wasn’t just a simple prospector or trapper. 

“Where did you serve, Englishman?” Nilsson shouted, changing positions. “You made it home early. Were you injured in battle? Perhaps you are too injured to fight? Were you too injured to fuck? Did you arrive home with no balls?” 

He skirted the perimeter, edging closer to a window. The crescent moon provided a sliver of light, enough he reasoned to distinguish a man from a piece of furniture. 

“I could kill you quickly, with honor. A warrior’s death is better than a coward’s.” He leaned against the cabin wall. “I survived Stalingrad. Lucky for you, yes? Our own little war, right here,” he said, cocking the Luger and double-checking magazine. The suppressor was removed—the need for stealth was over. 

“Do you like to kill, Englishman? My favorites were Jews and Gypsies. You should hear a Gypsy squeal when their gut is slowly cut open! We would kill the women first, after we enjoyed them for a while. The men were forced to watch while their women died. Or their children. I know, it is not sporting, right Englishman? You Englishmen, you need to follow rules; you are sporting.” 

Nilsson glanced in the window, memorizing the interior in less than a second. 

“You like cricket, Englishman?”

German, Sinclair thought, listening to the man’s speech. Here? How? A shadow passed by the window. His enemy was either positioning himself to breech through the front door or fire through the window, thinking Sinclair was behind the table.

Which will it be, Jerry? Sinclair steadied his breathing. He’d been in tighter spots. 

“Was your tongue cut out, Englishman? Maybe a disease from licking too many Russian whores, eh?” He laughed loudly. “Russian pussy—worse than their fucking vodka, I tell you!”

Sinclair sensed movement again—the glass shattered and a volley of shots smashed into the table and stove. It was deafening, like a freight-train barreling through the cabin. Sinclair cut the rope and the sack smashed onto the floor. He willed himself not to fire. The shooter hadn’t counted on an open attic: did his ruse work?

Nilsson heard something solid crash inside the cabin. Was the Englishman dead? He edged closer to the cabin door and stole a glance: something lay huddled on the floor. He leaned in and fired again. Sinclair flinched, pulling the trigger. The buckshot blew the doorframe apart, sending splinters into the air. 

The stench of gunpowder filled the small room, now suddenly quiet. He cracked the barrel and reloaded, then lowered himself. Sinclair smelled something else—blood. On the porch, the remains of a Luger was scattered among shards of wood. Outside, a figure lay in the snow, face down. What remained of the man’s right arm was severed below the elbow—his hand had been blown clean off. Sinclair approached the body, slowly, unsure if the man was dead or not. There was no movement, no sound. He knelt next to the body, feeling for a pulse.

Nilsson rolled onto his back; the dagger slit the air. He sensed the blade making contact; then, he rolled closer to Sinclair, a gamble. Sinclair pitched backwards, recoiling from the knife; a second blast from the shotgun rang out. Nilsson fell onto Sinclair, smashing his knee into the man’s groin. He braced himself for a second shot, for oblivion, and instead his vision began to cloud over. There was no shot: his enemy shuddered beneath him: the spasms slowed. His own loss of blood was severe and he collapsed where he lay.

He woke sometime later—it must have been hours because dawn was approaching. He tried to remember where he was, who he was, and then the stump that was his right arm reminded him. He began to laugh, like a madman. The Englishman should have shot me again! Not sporting—you goddamned Englishman! He lifted the remains of his arm and waved it in front of his face, like it was something new or fascinating. He continued to laugh, even louder: the stump had frozen and cauterized the wound. Nilsson then realized he was lying on top of the Englishman. He rolled off. A crimson halo of blood had flowed from the Englishman’s neck. He had severed the artery; the man had bled out in seconds. 

He pushed himself off and collected the knife, then stumbled towards the cabin. If he was going to survive, he needed fire. If he could make that happen, then maybe he’d survive.

The rest, could wait.